


The Sex Quilt

by Rochelle_Rochelle



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Joanlock - Freeform, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8672671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rochelle_Rochelle/pseuds/Rochelle_Rochelle
Summary: The sex blanket is replaced. Smut for the sake of smut. Not explicit explicit but close enough. Characters on the verge of OOC - there I reviewed it for you, now you can just mindlessly enjoy.





	

The Sex Quilt

The quilt was purchased during the investigation of an antique dealer. Heironymous Stenchman (the name alone had been enough to make Sherlock and Joan suspicious) was the proprietor of a gallery hawking everything from Etruscan amphorae to mid-century tableware. The quilt was sold to them claiming a provenance that linked it directly to Queen Victoria. It was a lie, of course, and they soon discovered Mr. Stenchman's other nefarious activities. He was turned over to the proper authorities, but the quilt, with its swatches of non-Victorian polyester cloth, well, that they kept. Its creamy yellows, pale greens and sporadic faded florals fit with the dishabille-style of the brownstone's walls. 

The quilt's true calling though became obvious a couple of days after it's arrival.

 

*The Cotton Gin*

The days of late had been long and stressful for Sherlock and Joan and just being able to engage in conversation that did not include murder, motives and gore was looked upon by them as recreational. 

They sat side by side on the library sofa; the blaze that raged in the fireplace providing the majority of the light in the darkened room. Joan, her feet tucked beneath her, arm arched across the sofa's back, sat facing Sherlock, whose body inclined towards hers. Taking into consideration that their topic of conversation was the cotton gin, there was no reason for the intensity and intimacy of their dialogue nor their physical proximity. Yet, an electric charge vibrated between them as they talked, an exhilarating connection on a plane other than intellectual, pulling them closer with each word uttered. It had happened before and they knew where it potentially led making it all the more exciting. 

"Yes, I understand, I've seen the images of the 5th century version of a gin, but Elias Whitney took the mechanism to ...." As she spoke, she reached and gently straightened his collar, patting it down; her fingers traced the material at his neck with long strokes before her hand returned to the sofa back.

A look of contentment brightened his features momentarily as she talked and touched and he drew a little closer. "Actually, it took a Holmes to truly make the difference in the gin design ..." His index finger tapped bravely at her thigh to punctuate his comment and meeting no resistance, the rest of his hand chose to remain there.

She smiled at him and rolled her eyes bringing her face in close into his, "Oh, please, you are not claiming credit for the cotton gin..." Almost nose to nose, they took a moment watching each other's mouth and eyes. Her hand drifted back towards his shoulder and playfully gave it a squeeze.

His head tipped forward and closed the small gap between them, his nose almost rubbing against hers. Their eyes met and held. "No, of course not." His words whispered across her lips. "But Hodgen Holmes, a.k.a., Henry Ogden Holmes, whose family immigrated to the Colonies, a very distant cousin, but a cousin nonetheless, was the true innovator ...." Lips brushed and a small sweet kiss was exchanged. 

"I'm going to start calling you Chekov ..." Joan's voice was full of tenderness.

Sherlock angled his head and dragged his lips cross hers then back again before speaking, "Anton Chekhov? I'm flattered, but why?"

Her hand was at his cheek, "Pavel Chekov, Star Trek ... original series ..." 

"Ah ... I should probably be insulted ... But having never ..." His words were muffled by her lips. The space between their bodies closed. His hands went to her hips and to her back pressing her to him, while she clasped his head and neck, open mouthed, hungrily seeking the pleasure of his skin, his mouth, his tongue.

They'd gotten this far before. But telephones and guests at the door, plus that one explosion from a refrigerated experiment, stopped them getting much further. This time nothing disrupted them and the intensity of the moment escalated until, breathless, he gently pulled her away. Skin flushed and dark hair cascading forward, her eyes shone with an intoxicating feralness he'd never witnessed in her before. It took all his strength to move away from her. 

Confused, Joan raked her hair off her face as she leaned back on to the sofa and watched him. Sherlock, obviously as aroused as she, stood and discarded his jacket. His movements were quick and sharp as if there weren't a moment to spare. Lunging at the far end of the sofa, he scooped the quilt up from where they'd placed it two days ago and in one motion unfurled it, wordlessly spreading it before her. His focus then shifted to her as he dropped to one knee and then the other. Kneeling at the quilt's center, his eyes widened and his breathing deepened as he waited for her answer to his unspoken question. 

Joan stepped onto the quilt. Sherlock, haloed in the orange light of the fire, watched her approach. She stood over him and he like a sinner asking for absolution, bent his head, letting it come to rest on her abdomen. Her hand soothed the back of his neck and held him to her. She stroked his hair and he pressed his nose and forehead closer, reveling in the feel of her. His hands skimmed from her waist down to her legs, caressed her calves, moved upwards to her knees and dared push up her black pencil skirt to her thighs. Joan gasped at the feel of his hands. Solemnly he looked up at her, watching her crumble against him, her body dragging against his. His mouth sought her as she descended to her knees; his hands still pushing her skirt further up. 

The blouse's thin material clung to her and he bit at the evidence of excitement. A low moan escaped her. His hands moved up to her waist and taking the blouse's material in his hands, he pulled it up and off of her. 

His open mouth returned to her breast, biting and teasing her nipple through the bra's sheer material. Joan squirmed with pleasure and pulled at his hair forcing his face up to hers, bending it back with the force of her kiss. Her hands moved to his collar and undid its buttons, swiftly moving down the shirts length unbuttoning until she could open it and leave him bare chested before her. She pushed him onto his back and Sherlock let her. He watched in the flickering light of the fire as she straddled him, undid her bra and slowly descended on to his bare chest. Her hands, bare breasts, hardened nipples, lips, mouth, tongue exploring and caressing his torso took him by exquisite surprise and all he could do was lay there and relish in the lust-inducing sensation of it all. 

Her hands moved down to undo his belt and the touch elicited a groan of her name. She unzipped his pants but before she could touch him, he rolled both of them across the quilt's soft material so that she lay on her back beneath him. He reverently dragged his hands down the length of her, and upon reaching the black material of her skirt, pulled, unzipped, and finally dragged it and her panties off with a flourish. 

Her chest heaved uncontrollably as she watched his eyes scan her naked body beneath him. His head moved onto her and mouth open, he suckled, bit and kissed his way to her slickly aroused core. His tongue parted, stroked and plunged deep inside her and she yelled out his name in ecstasy. 

Barely able to control himself any further, he stopped long enough to push his pants away. His engorged member released, he moved over and into her, feeling her take him in as she called out once again for him. Pelvic lunges and strong strokes quickly drove both of them over the edge into explosive orgasm. This time it was him hoarsely calling her name, groaning in pleasure at her undulations until he collapsed on top of her.

The orange-yellow light of the flames flickered and caressed their naked forms with warmth, highlighting his bare bottom between her parted thighs. Her arms wrapped tight around him as she murmured in his ear and he nuzzled at her neck. The quilt spread out beneath them, the warmth of the fire around them, they floated euphorically in each other's arms until sleep took them both.

 

Joan awoke to find herself wrapped in the quilt but Sherlock missing from her side. She opened her eyes to find him sitting naked in his chair, the soft glow of his phone illuminating his face. Sherlock caught sight of her and motioned with his hand for her to join him. She stood and, dragging the quilt with her, went over to him. 

"You're going to freeze," and with those words she sat herself on his lap, swooshing the quilt around both of them. 

With a satisfied "mmm," he wrapped an arm around her warm body and brought her closer. The other hand still held his phone, and he held it up for her to see.

Joan squinted and focused, "Is that...?"

"Yes. The Holmes cotton gin. See, his innovation..."

"Sherlock!" She moved to the crook of his neck and laughed.

"What? I didn't want you doubting ...." He stopped talking. Succumbing to the the sound and the feel of her giggles at his neck, he receded into the depths of the quilt cocoon they'd created.


End file.
